Breeze (or Lack Thereof)
by ummyeah
Summary: Magical Realism, Post-Reichenbach - In death, everyone comes back as a breeze. Everyone - except Sherlock.


It was said that on average, it took eleven days for the breeze to come. Nobody knew why this was or how it worked, but the eleven-day fact was common knowledge.

People created music, wrote poems and crafted novels about those eleven days before the breeze came. There'd been a film to come out in theaters recently, called _Your Name in the Breeze_, or something like that. John hadn't seen it, of course. It was one of those films that people fresh from an upsetting breakup or loss went to see, and a theater full of those people was the last thing John wanted. Even without the ridiculous overproduction of breeze-related media, there was a general consensus that they were the most heart-wrenching, agonizing eleven days of a person's life.

The average was eleven days. But Sherlock had always been anything _but_ average, hadn't he?

xxx

It surprised John to see how quickly things went back to normal.

Prior to the service, there had been visitors to the flat: Lestrade, coming to persuade John of his sincere belief that the papers were lying. Past clients who expressed gratitude for his services would stop by frequently. They were always polite and never outstayed their welcome, but it irked John all the same. Why were they coming _now_ of all times, to show their postmortem thanks as if it could change things?

A visit that John had not been expecting was from the British government himself, Mycroft Holmes. He appeared in the living room of 221B Baker Street the morning of the memorial service bearing a portfolio and an explanation. One contained the matters of Sherlock's will, and the other sought to ensure John that he had tried his best to arrange for the opportunity to attend the service, but confidential political business had gotten in the way. Though his expression was earnest, John knew better. The man had arranged for John to be picked up in a _helicopter_ before, for god's sake; he was sure that if Mycroft really wanted to, he could have found a way to be present at the short service. But John didn't say that. Instead he signed on the dotted lines, bade him a good day, and then shut the door forcefully after Mycroft took his leave. John wouldn't find out until a few months later that the papers he'd signed had given John the rights of property to all of Sherlock's effects at 221B Baker Street. When he did find out, it didn't change anything. Those items were Sherlock's and they would remain that way forever.

The worst visits, though, were from the media. They stood outside the flat, milling around on the steps to the door. Mrs. Hudson had taken to keeping the door locked after the first reporter stopped by and tried to strike up a conversation with her and John about the late detective. Now that the front door was locked, they began knocking and taking pictures of the windows of the flat, hoping to get a glance of life from within. Journalists, online bloggers (he didn't fail to see the irony in that), and even anchors from news shows on the telly came to stand in front of 221B, bringing with them a barrage of questions. When John sat in the living room or managed to get himself up to make tea, he could hear them pounding on the door and incessantly repeating their inquiries, hoping to garner a reply. The questions made him grind his teeth with barely contained rage; the blatant disrespect for Sherlock was enough to drive him mad after prolonged exposure. Was he in on the hoax, or had Sherlock hidden the truth from him as well? Did he feel betrayed? Were the posts on his blog about real cases, or were those made up along with "Moriarty"?

John realizes that he doesn't think about Moriarty often. He doesn't know what happened to the man, but he assumes he's not in the equation anymore.

On the ninth day of waiting, the question John had been dreading the most finally came: Had Sherlock's breeze come yet?

John had learned to ignore the questions until he heard the last one bleed through the windows. He'd been standing near the wall, his gaze focused on the skull perched atop the mantelpiece but his mind focused elsewhere. The query, so casually thrown out, permeated John's thoughtful contemplation and transported him back to reality, a place from which he strove to escape lately.

_Had Sherlock's breeze come yet?_ It was a simple question, and yet it was the worst one of the lot.

The question was just as offensive as the others. The problem with this one was the answer. With the other questions the answers were simple and concrete: Sherlock was _not_ a hoax. _No_, Richard Brooke did not exist; he was Moriarty all along. _Yes_, the cases he blogged were real.

_No_, Sherlock's breeze had not come yet.

xxx

On the eleventh day, John sits silently in his armchair. It's something he used to do every day, but the circumstances are so much different now. Before, there had never been silence: a violin screeching or singing, depending on Sherlock's mood; shots being fired at the wall; clients fearfully explaining their situation.

Silence is a normal thing for the flat now.

Because he has nothing else to do, John remembers what it was like when his grandfather's breeze returned to his grandmother. He can remember his grandmother, sitting and waiting for him to return, facing each day with increasing anxiety as the eleventh grew closer. When John, Harry, and his parents had gone to check up on her, he could see on the calendar where she marked the days that had elapsed. John was only ten, and at the time he hadn't understood why his grandmother was so worried about the situation. Everybody came back as a breeze, so why was she concerned about what day it was?

Now, almost thirty years later, John understands _exactly_ what his grandmother had been feeling. If John owned a calendar, he would be marking down the days on it as well.

When his grandfather's breeze finally came, John and his family were there with his grandmother. They'd been sitting outside on the front porch of grandmother's house having lunch when a soft, warm puff of wind began to ruffle the tablecloth. John could feel the gentle breeze playing with his hair and touching his cheek when became aware of the smell of grandfather's cigars saturating the air. The breeze was like a caress, wrapping each of them in its airy fingers. Everybody began to smile simultaneously, knowing _exactly_ what had just happened, but the largest grin could be found plastered to his grandmother's face.

John can't remember ever seeing a more blissful expression on anybody's face than her smile when grandfather's breeze arrived. The memory of that smile has stayed with him for his entire life. Now, on the eleventh day of his wait, John can't help but feel excited.

He stays in the flat for the entire day, waiting.

xxx

On the twelfth day, John wakes up in his armchair, neck stiff from falling asleep in an awkward position. The light coming in from the window suggests that it's early morning, not yet past seven. He rubs his eyes and stretches groggily, and then notices the cup of cold, unconsumed tea sitting on the floor beside him.

Mrs. Hudson had come up to the flat the afternoon before, offering the cup of tea and a gentle smile. There had been an unspoken question in her eyes: _Today's the day, isn't it?_

Now, twelve hours later, the cup of tea sat unnoticed and, with a dull ache in his chest, John knew the answer to Mrs. Hudson's silent inquiry.

Sherlock's breeze hadn't come for him.

xxx

John leaves the flat a little while after he wakes up. He cranes his neck and peers out the window first, making sure the coast is clear for him to leave without being attacked by a mass of journalists. Since it's still early in the morning, there isn't anyone waiting on the steps of 221B, and John is able to make his leave.

He isn't sure where to go. He walks along Baker Street for a few minutes, his eyes soaking in all the details of the buildings around him, his mind desperately hungry for a distraction. For the past eleven days he's been waiting for Sherlock's breeze to come, only to be left with these haunting feeling of disappointment and something sharp, leaden, and bitter that he couldn't identify.

On this twelfth day, John can't help but yearn for Sherlock. He yearns to feel the breeze embrace him, bearing the scents of Sherlock's favorite cologne and Sherlock's favorite coffee and Sherlock's favorite cigarettes. For a fleeting moment, he thinks of the touch of Sherlock's hand, something he'd always wanted but something he'd always feared too much to have.

After a while of walking along Baker Street, he turns onto a side road. He doesn't bother to look at the street names; those don't matter to him right now. He just keeps walking, feeling like he's looking for something and yet not knowing what it is he searches for.

xxx

On the fifteenth day, John has begun to entertain something like hope.

Throughout the course of history, it's been determined that _everyone_ has a breeze. It's unheard of – it's _inhuman_ – for a person to not have a breeze after their death. Sure, people had doubted if Sherlock was human at times, even John, but that didn't mean Sherlock wouldn't have a breeze.

In John's mind, that meant if Sherlock's breeze hadn't come back, then maybe Sherlock wasn't dead. After all, John hadn't felt Sherlock's breeze, and he was pretty sure that if Mrs. Hudson felt anything that was vaguely Sherlock, she would have told him by now.

It was a guilty pleasure to imagine that somehow, Sherlock was still alive. John hadn't yet shared this hope with anyone else: he was too raw for anybody to shoot down the one remaining bright spot in his life.

He didn't allow himself to think about what it meant if it was true, though. He tried to avoid the thought of one more chance to see Sherlock, grasp his hand, and explain all of the things that Sherlock meant to him.

xxx

On the sixteenth day, John receives a visit from a person he'd been expecting and dreading at the same time: one Mycroft Holmes.

When he appears in the flat that morning, looking dapper as ever in his suit and tie and clutching an umbrella in his right hand, John isn't sure whether he feels excitement or dismay. This visit could either mean something bad, or maybe – just maybe - he had come to see John about the lack of Sherlock's breeze.

John offers him a cup of tea, which Mycroft accepts. "Though perhaps I should be the one to prepare it," Mycroft adds. "You look rather…"

"Incapable of making tea?"

Mycroft gives him a grim smile then makes his way into the kitchen, leaving John standing in the living room with nothing to do until the kettle boils. Mycroft fetches two cups from the cupboard, and though John isn't sure how he knows exactly where everything is located in the kitchen, he doesn't question it.

Mycroft returns with two steaming cups of tea a few minutes later. John accepts his with a polite smile and isn't surprised to find that Mycroft knows exactly how he takes his tea. Of course Mycroft would know these things.

"Sit down?" John asks, holding his cup in one hand and using the other to point to his armchair. Some ridiculous streak of stubbornness within him won't allow Mycroft to sit in Sherlock's favorite chair.

"I'd rather stand," Mycroft replies.

John can see that Mycroft isn't in a very chatty mood. They drink their tea in silence. Mycroft's gaze seems to exist only for the cup of tea in his hand, while John's eyes wander around the room uncomfortably. He isn't sure when to ask Mycroft about Sherlock's breeze, so he's content to let Mycroft begin the difficult conversation. When it becomes obvious that Mycroft has no intention of initiating talk, John feels the responsibility fall squarely into his lap.

"So," John says slowly, feeling like he's dealing with a dangerous animal. Mycroft looks up from the cup at the sound of John's voice, his eyebrows raised. "Why are you here, then?"

"Must I have a reason to visit you, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft volleys back. The use of John's surname reinforces John's first impression of Mycroft's mood: he can see the other man's fingers clench tightly around the handle of the teacup.

"Well, I just figured you would have one today, seeing as you weren't invited," John replies. Bitterness swells up within him at the elder Holmes, who couldn't be bothered to attend his little brother's memorial service. "But, by all means, you're completely welcome to stop by my house without my permission. Seeing as you're the British Government and such."

Mycroft's face pinches slightly but he recovers quickly. "My apologies, John. I merely stopped by to see how you're faring."

John takes a sip of his tea and then nods his head. "Great. I'm doing fine. Just fine." He pauses. "How're you?"

"The same." Mycroft's voice is clipped, too polite.

John patiently waits for more. When nothing comes, his excitement begins to grow: what if Mycroft really _is_ here to ask John about Sherlock's breeze? He didn't see what else he could be here for. If he was here just to check up on him as he said, he would have finished his tea quickly and then left. He wouldn't be lingering.

His excitement makes him bold.

"Listen, Mycroft… have you, um, felt Sherlock?"

In reply, Mycroft silently regards John. There's a small crease between his eyebrows, but otherwise, his face is impassive as ever. Sherlock would have known what the tiny wrinkle on his brother's face meant, but John was clueless.

Mycroft remains silent, so John continues. His voice cracks. "I know this is ridiculous, but I haven't felt him. I mean, _everyone_ has a breeze. Even Sherlock. _Especially_ Sherlock. And if I haven't felt him… I was just thinking that…" John feels his throat hitch and coughs into the back of his hand. "Look, this is crazy, but could he still be alive? Because his breeze hasn't come, and it's unheard of for someone to not have a breeze."

John coughs again. He can feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins from purging his secret hope. The room is so silent that John can hear the blood pounding in his ears and even the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

Slowly, as if calculating his movements, Mycroft settles himself down into John's armchair. He places his teacup gently down on the floor and leans his umbrella against the side of the chair, then leans forward until his elbows rest on his knees. Every one of his movements broadcast defeat, and John can swear that he sees the slightest flicker of doubt in Mycroft's usually emotionless eyes. John stands and waits, feeling his pulse start to skyrocket.

The silence is _deafening_.

"John," Mycroft begins hesitantly, his voice small and lacking the authority it usually carries, "I hate to tell you this. But yes, I have felt Sherlock's breeze."

John clenches his fists and redirects his eyes to stare at the floor. It's at that exact moment that John can start to feel his world crumble for a second time. The dark, bitter feeling comes back again, this time in full force.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft says.

John nods, numb. It's all he can really do.

xxx

On the thirtieth day, John is able to identify that leaden feeling he'd experienced before. It was betrayal. Sherlock's breeze had come, but not for him.

He makes himself leave the flat to go to Tesco. He'd stayed in the flat without leaving for almost a week, despite Lestrade's attempts to coax him out for a drink or even just a chat. Mrs. Hudson had been supplying John with groceries, but he figured it was time he started getting back to life's mundane chores again. Of course, he checks the windows to make sure there's not a crowd of journalists waiting below. The only person on the street is a young woman, wrapped up in a jacket and walking slowly past. The throngs of reporters have really thinned out lately, a fact John's very grateful for.

The entire seventeen steps down from the flat, all John can think about is the fact that Sherlock's breeze didn't come for him. After all they'd been through, he'd gone to Mycroft. It was almost unimaginable, and completely unlike the Sherlock he'd known. A pang of cold anger slices through his heart and he wants to blame anything and anyone for it. It doesn't matter who, he just wants to blame _somebody_.

As he shuts the door to the flat behind him and steps onto the sidewalk, John sees it coming.

At first it's slow, playfully picking up a sheet of discarded paper up from the road and tossing it around in the air, but it gradually gathers in intensity. John can see its progress down Baker Street, making fallen leaves swirl and signs flutter. As it draws closer and closer, John can feel the breath leave his lungs.

_Sherlock. _

It's the same rush of adrenaline that he would get when he and Sherlock would be chasing a suspect for a case through the streets of London. His heart beats quickly in his chest, knowing that it _has_ to be Sherlock, even though he's nineteen days late. In his mind he's remembering the intoxicating feeling of just being in the same room as Sherlock and the sound of a violin and that wide smile on his grandmother's face.

He's still thinking of his grandmother on the eleventh day when the breeze swoops past him, clearly on the other side of the road as if it went out of its way to avoid him. There's no cushion of warm air around John, no lingering scent of coffee and cigarettes. There's nothing. The air is completely still, scentless, silent.

While it avoids John, the breeze seeks out the woman further up Baker Street. John's heart drops: he'd completely forgotten about her. The breeze curls around her, toying with her auburn hair and making the leaves on the ground swirl, almost tornado-like, around her feet. The purse she carries in the crook of one of her arms sways gently. Even from down the street, John can hear her giggle and see her smile.

It's the same smile as he'd seen thirty years ago on his grandmother's face. The smile that he was meant to have, but didn't.

xxx

On the ninety-third day, when there's still no sign of Sherlock's breeze, John really begins to feel confused about what he'd said that last day.

_Alone is what protects me_, Sherlock had said.

_Friends are what protect people_, John had said back. If only he'd know back then that Sherlock had been right.

John used to have friends, and they were doing him a whole lot of good now. He sees Molly on the street one day, for an example. Their eyes met briefly but in a heartbeat Molly casts her eyes away, refusing to look him in the face.

xxx

On the one-hundred-and-twentieth day, John returns to work. He didn't think he could bear starting up at his old job again: before _it_ had happened, Sarah had been clearly interested in rekindling their relationship, and he doesn't need that or her pity. He searches for another until he manages to secure a job at an out-of-the-way practice that he's never heard of before. It was the first one that didn't mind that he was _John Watson_, partner in crime to the fake genius who'd committed suicide a few months back. The interviewer couldn't remember his name at first, but then halfway through the interview her eyes widened and John knew that meant she'd remembered.

Nevertheless, he'd gotten the job. The commute was alright and the pay wasn't bad, so he had jumped at the chance to get out of the flat.

He'd tried thinking about leaving, but he realized as soon as the thought formulated that he didn't have the heart to leave 221B Baker Street. Not only did he not have the strength - but he knew that his leaving would break Mrs. Hudson's heart. It wasn't that she needed the rent money; an anonymous check would show up every month. It didn't specify that it was for rent, but John had a sneaking suspicion that Mycroft Holmes had a hand in it.

However kind it was for Mycroft to do so, John never thanked him. Not that he ever saw Mycroft; their awkward chat more than three months ago had been the last time John had seen him. Even if he were to see Mycroft, he wouldn't thank him. John knew it was ridiculous, but he was too bitter to thank him.

xxx

On the three-hundred-and-ninetieth day, John tries going out with a lovely, dark-haired woman named Mary Morstan he'd met a few times. They'd kept bumping into each other all the time – Tesco, the coffee shop, the sidewalk outside of John's practice. Finally, Mary had asked him to lunch and John had said yes, even though he couldn't help but remember all of the lunches he'd shared with Sherlock. It must have been coincidence that Mary chose a Chinese restaurant for lunch.

They go out a few times, and one night – the four-hundred-and-eleventh night - John asks Mary to dinner. She agrees, a bit hesitantly at first, but eventually they figure out a time and place. They eat Italian this time, another coincidence.

John's life seems to be full of those, all perfectly timed to remind him of Sherlock when he most needed it.

They ordered their food and then sat and waited in near-silence. Mary seemed to be jittery, looking around at the other couples in the restaurant and tapping her fingers on the tablecloth. John's distracted by the atmosphere of the restaurant: he thinks of another restaurant where he'd propped his cane up against his chair and waited for a serial killer to make an appearance, and also where he'd make the best friend he'd ever had.

When the food came, they're both a bit relieved to have a break from the awkward silence. They eat quietly, exchanging polite conversation and making half-hearted declarations about how nice everything is tonight. In reality, everything is far from nice and John can sense both himself and Mary struggling to keep things afloat. Halfway through the meal, John finds out why Mary was so reluctant to make the date.

"Look, John," Mary says quietly, setting down her fork by the side of her plate. John's ear focuses more on the tiny _clink_ of the silverware against the plate than what Mary is saying. "I think you're wonderful, but I also think that this is going nowhere."

John looks up from staring at Mary's fork and then sets down his own. He feels like he should be shocked, but he knows he isn't. "What do you mean?"

Mary tries to smile. "I mean that I know you're in love with somebody else. You didn't have to agree to come out with me the first few times if you didn't want to." She pauses. "You didn't have to take pity on me."

Now John _is_ shocked, but only slightly. "What? Mary, I didn't take pity on you. Why would you think that?"

She looks down at the floor, her lip twisting. He can't tell if it's a real smile or a smirk. "Okay, you're not taking pity. But there is someone else, isn't there? I mean, on all of our dates, you've always had this vacant look in your eyes. Physically you're here, with me, but mentally you're somewhere else completely."

Before anything else, Sherlock flashes through John's mind. _Running through the streets eating takeout at the flat violin at three in the morning blue scarf Sherlock Holmes._

He kicks himself mentally.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," John says. He looks down at the floor, too, not sure what else to do. He shakes his head and wonders whether it's embarrassment or guilt that colors his cheeks. "I'm really sorry."

Mary reaches across the table to take John's hand. John gladly accepts it with a squeeze and then grits his teeth. "It's alright," Mary says. "I can't be angry with you for something you can't help. If I'm not the one, then I'm not the one. Simple as that."

Though John sees her smiling, he can see that her eyes are haunted by loneliness. John squeezes her hand again, because he knows that his eyes have worn that look before.

Only when they're leaving does John realize that the table didn't have a candle, unlike another table at an Italian restaurant he'd eaten at before, so long ago.

xxx

Despite everything, John and Mary stay friends. They usually meet up for coffee on Thursdays, during John's lunch break. They'll sit, sip their coffee, and chat about how their week has been. They'll rant about work, family problems, or a noisy neighbor. Mary's neighbor has a dog that wakes her up every morning when it barks at the cars as traffic starts up on the street. (_John used to have a noisy neighbor, too, but he didn't mind.)_

John leaves the flat much more often now, but he tries to avoid people on the streets. It's almost like he's cursed; breezes have a bad habit of following their loved ones whenever John is around, which just serves as a cruel reminder that _Sherlock went to Mycroft_.

xxx

On the seven-hundred-and-thirtieth day, John notices that it's been two years.

John sits down and tries to figure out how he's doing. He sits in his armchair, computer perched on his lap, and scrolls through his blog. He hasn't updated it since just after _it_ happened, so there's nothing recent. But what is there, he realizes, is a carefully kept diary of the eighteen months preceding _it_.

He reads through each post, his eyes eagerly devouring his own words. With each entry, however, he slowly sees what others had already seen so long ago.

John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And still is.

It's not shock that he's feeling upon his realization: it's relief. All those years, John had been hiding the truth from himself and only now did he allow himself to see it. Harry had already pointed this out several times in the comments in her not-so-subtle language. Of course, John had denied it at the time, but now, exactly two years later, he wants nothing more than to go back and tell the world that it was true.

It's funny how one can see everything perfectly in hindsight, John thinks.

xxx

On the nine-hundred-and-sixtieth day, John wakes up slowly. He'd gone to bed early last night, so he isn't sure why he's feeling so groggy. There's a grey, watery sort of light seeping in through the curtains of his bedroom and he can hear the gentle drumming of rain on the roof. He has the day off from his shift at the office today, so he's not sure what to do with himself.

He makes his way to the kitchen slowly. Now, more than ever, the flat seems oddly silent with the lack of a screeching stringed instrument or the sound of a pen scribbling down notes about an experiment or a phone buzzing with a new text from Lestrade telling them about a case. He's thinking about all of these things when he notices what's missing.

Sherlock's microscope.

_Where is it?_

Alarm hits John with the same force as a brick wall would. John takes quick, panicky breaths and glances around the kitchen. It's not on the table where it usually sits, it's not on the floor, it's not anywhere. Who would take it? Why _now_?

Because he can't think of anything else to do, John quickly descends the seventeen steps and knocks on Mrs. Hudson's door. He tries to think of other places it could be but can't think of anywhere. It's ridiculous how badly he's reacting, but the microscope was Sherlock's, and therefore it meant everything to John and he needs it back now.

Mrs. Hudson answers the door a few moments later. Her hair is mussed but her eyes are bright, so she hasn't just woken up but she hasn't been up for long. "John? What is the matter, dear?" she asks. Confusion wrinkles her features. "Is everything alright?"

"Where is it?" John asks almost feverishly. "Sherlock's microscope. It's not there. Has there been _anyone_ let into the flat this morning or last night?"

"Oh, goodness, John." Mrs. Hudson looks down and then steps out of the doorway, closing the door behind her. "I didn't realize you would be this ruffled about it. I went and grabbed it last night so I could take it down to the school this morning to donate it. The old thing was just taking up space in your flat."

John breathes deeply and shakes his head. "Mrs. Hudson, I really think you shouldn't donate it," he says. "It would just feel wrong. It's Sherlock's, after all, not yours or mine. It belongs here."

John isn't sure whether it's sadness or pity that crosses Mrs. Hudson's face before she nods. She opens her mouth to speak and then shuts it quickly. "Let me go fetch it."

He knows that Mrs. Hudson feels sorry for him, but Sherlock's microscope is back in 221B later that morning, and that's all that matters.

xxx

On the one-thousand-and-ninety-fifth day, John leaves the flat for work early. He's planning on catching a cab on a busier street, so for now he ambles down Baker Street quietly. There's nobody else on the street but another man further up the street, walking with his nose buried inside of a book. Several others are tucked underneath his arm.

Earlier that morning, he saw that today marks three years since it happened.

John faces the day with a sort of calm determination. The determination shatters, however, when the man with the book swerves off course to turn onto a side street, his eyes still glued to the book, and hits John.

John doesn't get a good look at him before the man knocks into him. The impact is enough to send the man and the books he'd been carrying sprawling out on the sidewalk. Alarm shoots through John as he's pushed toward the nearby building, but manages to catch himself with his palm before he slams into the bricks. He collects himself quickly, his breath coming in pants from the shock and the spurts of pain from his hand. He's bleeding a bit on his palm, the blood interspersed with dirt and tiny pebbles from the wall.

The other man is slower to pick himself up. John retrieves one of the books that landed nearer to him than the stranger – an old copy of _British Birds _– and waits for him to gather the others. As soon as the stranger stands, John hands him the last of his books.

"Just what the _hell_ were you thinking?" John shouts.

The man accepts his book and adds it to the stack sandwiched between his arm and body. Using his other arm he brushes off his tattered jacket. "I'm sorry," he says in an oddly gruff voice. It sounds like it's not his normal voice; it's almost as if he has a cold or something. It's then that John gets a good look at him. He's tall, but with a slight stoop. He has rough patches of stubble adorning his chin and he has a mop of brownish-red hair peeking out from under a floppy hat. The man definitely looks like he's seen better days.

John sighs and tightens his non-injured hand into a fist. "It's alright," he says, then shakes his head. "Just watch where you're going next time, right? Look up from the book every once and a while."

The man's mouth curves into a smile, the left side lifting up higher than the right. Something about the smile makes John's heart ache, but he quickly pushes it down. "Now I've got to get back to my flat and patch up my hand," John says. "You take care of yourself."

The stranger nods, then starts walking towards the side street he'd originally been aiming for. John doesn't stick around; he's only got a little time to head back to the flat and fix his hand.

Once he's back at the flat, John can barely push himself to walk up the stairs. He's tired, sad, done. Lethargically, he rinses his hand in the sink with warm water to clean the wound. It's not really bad, just a small cut on the heel of his palm. He's definitely seen worse. John is sifting through the cupboards and drawers in search of a band-aid when he hears the door to the flat open and then click shut.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he calls out. There's no reply.

The sounds of quiet footsteps eradicate the stifling silence of the flat. John's heart is in his throat. He quickly grabs the box of bandages and sets it on the counter before closing the cupboard and turning around.

Standing in the doorway is the man from the street.

Except he's not.

He still clutches the books in his arms but the hat and the ragtag jacket are long gone. The hair on his head is redder than the dark brown John knows so well, but that doesn't change anything. It explains John's reaction to the man's smile before. It explains that, and so much more.

It explains the breeze (or lack thereof), for the man standing in the doorway is Sherlock Holmes.

John is too frozen to do anything but stare even though his heart is screaming _thank god thank god thank god I knew it._

Sherlock leans against the doorway and looks down at his stack of books. "British Birds," Sherlock says, tapping the cover. "It's not a bad guide, but the coloring of the peregrine falcon was off by a touch. Made it look more like a kestrel, in my opinion."

John opens his mouth and struggles to find something to say. He holds his head in his hands for a moment, trying desperately to contain laughter bubbling up within him. The sheer joy of the moment makes him completely forget about the stinging of his hand – and the fact that his shift starts in half an hour. Time is irrelevant, anyway, when Sherlock is around.

While he searches for something to say, Sherlock watches him expectantly. John is sure that Sherlock is deducing him now, same as always, reading between the lines and understanding everything that he can't put into words.

"Three years, Sherlock," John starts. "Three _bloody_ years and the first thing you say to me is a complaint about the coloring of a peregrine in a book. Jesus."

"The inaccuracy was stunning, John. You should see it, really."

John bursts out laughing: he can't hold it back anymore. "You bloody idiot," he manages to gasp out. "I can't believe you."

Sherlock gives John another smile and steps out of the doorway and into the kitchen. He sets the books down – _British Birds_ and all – on the table next to the microscope and stands an arm's length away from John. "I'm sorry," he says. Even in his laughter, John can see Sherlock's eyes focusing on his hand. "I apologize for hurting your hand."

"That's not what matters, Sherlock," John says, his laughter dying away slowly. Even though he's filled with joy, he can't help but feel a trace of anger. "I don't really even know what to say right now. I don't know whether I should ask why, or punch you, or…"

_Kiss you._ He stops himself before he says that last one or anything else risky.

Sherlock's normally stoic face softens for the slightest moment; it's almost imperceptible, but John sees it. "Feel free to ask."

John steps forward and punches Sherlock lightly on the arm. When his knuckles make contact with Sherlock's arm he knows it's real, and that Sherlock isn't just an apparition. "Or I could just punch you, like that. You're lucky I'm thrilled to see you, otherwise it would've been harder than that." He grins. "But really, why? You know, I waited for you… your breeze…" John stops. Realizes. The ecstasy he'd previously felt melts away almost instantly.

"Oh my god." John rubs his forehead with a hand, exasperated. "Mycroft. He stopped by one day, right after. He told me that he'd felt your breeze."

Sherlock looks away from John and narrows his eyes. "Yes."

A wave of anger hit John. "He lied to me. _You_ lied to me. You were on the pavement, your face bashed in. You were _dead_. What the _hell_?"

Sherlock takes a step back from John. "I'm sorry, it was for your protection-"

John's hands and voice are shaking and now he really is considering punching Sherlock harder. "Normal people don't fake their death. They certainly don't drag it out for three goddamn years. Do you realize how fucked up that is? I waited for your breeze, and when it never came, it was awful. Bloody _awful_."

"John-"

"I got my hopes up, you know, when your breeze didn't come. I thought that maybe, you were still alive. But no, Mycroft comes out of nowhere and claims that your breeze came to him. How great do you think that made me feel? Thinking that you, my best friend, chose his brother over me. After everything we'd been through. Who the hell in their right minds would do something like that? Somebody who doesn't care, obvio-"

Without warning, Sherlock lunges forward and takes John's injured hand gently in his own. John shuts his mouth immediately and feels his heart doing palpitations in his chest; this is what he's been wishing for over the past three years, and it's actually happening. He looks at the small cut, beginning to leak blood again. "We have to fix this, don't we?" Sherlock asks.

"What-?"

"Don't splutter John, it ruins the moment. Now… where do you keep the band-aids? Ah, there they are." Sherlock plucks the box from the counter and opens the top with a tiny _pop_. He reaches a thin finger inside and selects a bandage.

John makes a move to snatch the band-aid and his hand away from Sherlock, but the taller man grins and holds both with an iron grip. "I don't think so," he says.

Sherlock manages to quickly tear through the band-aid's packaging using his free hand and what fingers are not occupied with holding John's. With one swift movement he applies the bandage to John's hand. Sherlock's fingers are surprisingly warm as they press the bandage onto his skin.

"I – thanks," John says. He waits for the pressure of Sherlock's hand to leave his, but it doesn't.

"I owe you that, and much more," Sherlock says.

All thoughts fly out from John's head and he can't keep the grin from his face. He struggles to find something to say in response, then finally settles with asking a question. "So, why the books and old jacket?"

"Oh, you mean the disguise? It was just something to do with the last of Moriarty's criminal network. That's nothing to worry about, until later today. It should happen sometime tonight, actually."

"What? _What's_ happening tonight?" Something like a mixture of confusion and alarm shoots through John.

Sherlock shakes his head, holding back a childish grin. "If I told you now, it wouldn't be as fun."

John rolls his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. Even in the four minutes that Sherlock has been back in his life, it already feels just like the old days.

While he's thinking about life from before the past three years, he notices Sherlock still hasn't moved his hand. John steels himself not to look at Sherlock's hand on his; surely Sherlock would notice John looking and move it.

"So, you said… this whole thing… was to protect me?"

"From Moriarty, yes."

"But isn't he…?"

"Yes, Moriarty is dead. But his network of criminals was far from dead three years ago. I took care of that, however."

"The last of which comes into play tonight, then?" John smiles and shakes his head. "I'd rather not know how you 'took care of that'. But I… I missed you, you know."

Sherlock nods. His voice is dangerously neutral. "I figured as much."

"I'm going to kill Mycroft, by the way, for lying to me."

Sherlock nods again. "It was rather cruel of him, wasn't it?"

John nods a little and looks at his shoes. "I was so upset, you know, when I thought your breeze hadn't come for me." He grimaces. "I don't know. I was angry."

There's no answer from Sherlock. John doesn't look up until he feels a puff of air on his forehead, upon which he raises his eyes questioningly.

"An improvised breeze to make up for it," Sherlock explains. "I'm very sorry."

As Sherlock answers, John realizes he can't take it any longer. He leans forward and envelopes Sherlock into a crushing hug. Sherlock instantly reciprocates, much to John's surprise. It takes John a moment to realize that his head fits perfectly into Sherlock's shoulder, like they were puzzle pieces meant to fit together.

It was rather cliché, actually, but he didn't care. All that mattered was the pressure of Sherlock's arms around him and the sensation of Sherlock pressing a kiss onto the top of his head.

"I've wanted to do this for a long time, John," Sherlock's voice murmurs. "I missed you too."

John smiles.

No – he _grins_.

He won't realize it until later, but his grin is more euphoric than his grandmother's smile, more than thirty years earlier.


End file.
